


All in the suit that you wear

by loveinadoorway



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: All in the suit that you wear<br/>Paring/Characters: Neal, Peter<br/>Genre: gen<br/>Rating: PG<br/>Word count: 763<br/>Warnings: None, unless the destruction of designer wear upsets your equilibrium<br/>Spoilers: None<br/>Disclaimers: No harm intended, no profit made, yadda yadda<br/>Summary: A treatise on why you shouldn’t store your stuff in an old speakeasy without having the wires checked by someone who knows what they’re doing. Also a treatise on friendship.<br/>Title & quote is from a song by the Stone Temple Pilots.<br/>Written for the Multi-fandom Suit & Uniform Kink Meme at LJ's tailoredshirt</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in the suit that you wear

_All in the suit that you wear_  
When you're looking for something  
It's in the suit that you wear  
when you're hiding from someone  
All in the suit that you wear  
When you wear it

Neal stared at the charred corpses, white faced and completely shell-shocked. This couldn’t be true, he thought.

June took his arm. He turned and saw that she was crying.

“Neal, I don’t know what happened. The old speakeasy wiring… something must have short-circuited. And now they’re all gone. All of them…”

He took her in his arms, knowing full well she had lost the last thing that still gave her husband some odd kind of presence in her life. But there was nothing anyone could do anymore. The beautiful de Vore suits were burned. In some spots, there clearly had been a proper fire and in those places, all that was left was piles of ashes. But where the wiring had only smoldered, the suits were still recognizable, though horridly mutilated. Which, in a way, was much, much worse.

Peter rushed into the room, pale-faced, expression grim.

“Anyone got hurt?” he asked breathlessly.

“They’re all gone, Peter,” Neal whispered, echoing June’s words as he stared miserably at what was left of his favorite suit.

Peter was about to launch into an educational speech on the subject of not getting attached to THINGS, because THINGS were less important than people, but Neal looked so forlorn that he shut his mouth firmly and instead just patted the other man on the shoulder a few times.

The next morning, Neal slunk into the office, wearing a nondescript polyester nightmare in beige. This cheapoid piece of crap had been all he could afford on the prison-style wages the FBI paid him. And yes, the suit had come in colors that would’ve suited him better, but what was the point, really, when none of them would EVER look good on him. Not like the de Vores had.

So there he was.  
Neal Caffrey. Con man, grifter, forger, entrepreneur – resplendent in … polyester. His jaw hurt, he had clenched it so often already that morning – in fact, whenever he caught sight of his reflection - he’d be sore the next day. No jaunty hat, no vest and a tie that actually had kind of chafed his fingers when he had tied it, believe it or not. He wouldn’t be able to bum a dollar for the subway off a kindly old lady in this thing.

Peter was watching Neal from his office.  
The younger man sat dejectedly at his desk, staring into his cup of coffee as if he wanted to drown himself in it any minute now. Every now and again, he ran a finger under his collar, looking so thoroughly uncomfortable and miserable that Peter couldn’t bear to watch it any longer.

He might have his head ripped off for this one, but he’d be damned if he was going to be around Neal on suit withdrawal for one more minute.  
So Peter purposefully strode towards his boss’ office. Into the breach we go, he thought.

“Burke, have you gone mental? You can not, I repeat CAN NOT requisition thousand dollar suits for Caffrey. They are NOT necessary for his work.”

“Pardon me for disagreeing, Sir,” Peter interjected calmly, but firmly, “Caffrey is a con man and he needs must have the proper attire. We won’t be able to use him without it. The suits are his business card, his way in. Without them, he is of no use to us.”

A shadow fell across the piece of paper on which Neal was idly doodling Rembrandt’s Night Watch, scale 1:18. He looked up into the smirking face of Peter Burke.

“Neal, with me,” he said and waved his hand rather grandly.

They rode the elevator down to the second basement level and Peter led the way through what felt like miles and miles of corridors. Finally, they came to a door, which Peter opened with his ID card and a pin code, carefully blocking the key pad from Neal’s view.

They walked into a huge storage room. Along the walls hung rows upon rows of designer suits and dresses.  
Neal was gaping, mouth open.

“All of these were seized from criminals. Pick your choice, Neal. Take as many as you need,” Peter said, raising his hand as Neal tried to speak. “No, no commenting, no thanking, no telling what I had to promise my boss to make this happen. Just get your behind into a suit that suits you and promise me you will never, ever allow anything to happen to your clothes again, okay?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” mumbled Neal, already fingering a charcoal Armani three-piece with a blissed-out smile on his face.


End file.
